


Exit Pursued...

by Poemsingreenink



Series: Sing To The End [4]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, References to Shakespeare, but without as many dick jokes as he'd want
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-10-23 18:43:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10725027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poemsingreenink/pseuds/Poemsingreenink
Summary: Emma, Billy and Goodnight attend the theater, and run into Sam.





	1. Chapter 1

**_ Sometime in March _ **

 

Emma Cullen left Dogwood, Nevada with two old companions, one new set of clothes and a head shaven so bald and smooth that the surface gleamed in the early morning sunlight.

The clothes were finer than anything she’d ever owned, something she would thank Goodnight for just as soon as she could open her mouth without crying. The pants were a dark brown, and had been paired with a white undershirt that she knew wouldn’t stay white for long, suspenders, and  a dark green vest with brass buttons running up the front. Her boots were still her own, thank god, but her brown hat was also a new acquaintance. One that was sure to be put to good use thanks to her recent haircut.

“You know,” Goodnight said, breaking the silence that had reined over their little group since the night before. “During the war head lice were an everyday occurrence. Not too many of the boys went as far as shaving themselves bald though. I did have one lieutenant give that a try, but he claimed the little buggers just moved down south and set up shop around his balls.”

Emma stared at him. Billy, who was riding between them, pulled a flask out from the inside of his tailcoat, and took an impressive swig.

“Not that-well what I mean is-” Goodnight’s face flushed as red as the hair that had once covered her scalp. “That sort of thing is pretty rare I imagine. Most of the men just combed the bugs out and chucked them into the fire.”

Emma had done a similar thing with her clothes and hair the night before. The lot of it dumped onto an impressive pile that was set ablaze at the edge of town. She wasn’t the only one leaving Dogwood with a naked scalp thanks to the efforts of an overly watchful church group.

“Sometimes,” Goodnight pushed, the words spilling out of his mouth. “We’d even race them! All you needed was an empty plate. We’d put them in the center and then bet on which one would crawl off the edge first. It was the height of entertainment!”

He laughed, but it sounded forced and hollow. His gaze dropped to the pommel of his saddle.

“You wouldn’t think you could get bored during a war, but you’d be surprised.”

Billy handed the flask over, and Goodnight gladly took it. While he drank, Billy turned his attention back to Emma, and tipped his hat.

“I’m sorry, Emma.”

Emma opened her mouth, and had to pause to gather herself before she did something embarrassing. The loss of her hair was hurtful, but the loss of the clothes was something else all together. Those ill-fitting clothes that had covered Mathew’s body once upon a time. Mathew’s old pants hemmed to fit. Mathew’s old shirt that had smelled like him right until it hadn’t. Mathew’s old vest too big, but encompassing her body in a loose hug. They’d been the most sensible travel garments on her farm, and they’d been what she’d worn day-in-and-day-out since leaving Rose Creek. They’d been an irreplaceable and private comfort.

“Hair grows back,” Billy said, confidently.

 “That it does,” she finally said. “And please don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault my room was the one infested with critters.”

She’d let herself cry a little later when she was alone. Losing Mathew’s clothes didn’t mean losing his memory, and as dreary as the situation was, she also felt strangely renewed. As though a layer of sadness had been scrubbed off her at the town’s edge, and now all she needed was one final soak before she was completely clean. It wasn’t an entirely comfortable feeling. 

She closed the distance between her and Billy, and motion to a stray lock of his hair. She stopped just short of touching him, unsure if they were close enough for such things.

“It could have been worse. We could have been sharing a room. Then we’d all be bald.”

“I think you look rather nice bald,” Goodnight chimed in. “You have a well-shaped head, and who knew there were even more freckles hiding under that sunset! It’s a charming surprise.”

The corner of Billy’s mouth curled, and while Emma’s face wasn’t cooperating she hoped at the very least her eyes were showing how much she appreciated these efforts at comfort. 

“What? It is!”

It was the last thing any of them said that morning.

 

* * *

 

**_Some months later….._ **

 

She woke up in a jail cell in Burnt Fish Junction (Population 342) with a splitting headache, and a tacky feeling coating her mouth.

“Emma? Are you awake?”

She was awake, but the problem was she didn’t feel _alive_. When she tried to respond to whoever was talking to her all that came out was a groan. She rolled to her side with her entire body screaming, sat up, and leaned back. Thankfully there was a wall there to catch her. Without it she would have just gone spilling onto the ground.

“Emma?”

Her left eye was swollen shut, and when she opened the right she found she had a nice view of Billy. The only thing obstructing it was the parallel bars that made up the cell door.

“Have the law arrested you?” she asked, confused.

Billy shook his head. He leaned against the bars, watching her with his dark brown eyes, and a blank expression.

“ _You’ve_ been arrested. You got into a bar fight.” His words were chipped, and his tone full of so much forced control that Emma felt her stomach twist.

She ran a hand over her head, a little habit she’d picked up since her hair cut, and let the feeling of the short peach fuzz that was growing across her scalp ground her. The night before began to take shape in her memory.

They’d been relaxing at the local saloon, and despite being as sober as a Quaker Emma’d found that she was actually enjoying herself. The room was pleasantly warm, and Goodnight was humming along to the piano. Billy was smoking slowly through his first cigarette of the night, and all of their bellies were full.

It helped that none of the men in the room were watching her with eyes that asked exactly how much coin it would take for her to disappear upstairs with them. Much as it pained Emma to admit, the hair-cut and the fancy new duds were going a long way to making travel easier in more populated areas. From far off and close up she looked like a young man, and as it turned out young men didn’t get hassled nearly as much as women did when going…just about anywhere.

She was considering asking Billy for a cigarette when a man paused by their table, looked Billy square in the eye, and said something so foul about his personhood that Emma found herself jumping to her feet.

Goodnight had put a hand on her arm which only made her temper spark. Her face flushed, and the flush traveled through her entire body. He was trying to steady her as though she were a misbehaving horse for god’s sake. Goodnight was talking, but the words were so lost in the haze of Emma’s rage that she barely understood him. Billy continued to smoking. Casual as can be as though nothing was happening. Nothing of an interest to him anyway.

The grip Goody had on her arm grew tighter, but that just meant that when she’d pointed at the man’s face she’d had to use the opposite arm. No amount of physical pressure could keep her from speaking.

“Why don’t you keep your fat mouth shut you-”

The punch sent her to the ground where the world immediately went dark.

“Remembering how stupid you were?” Billy asked.

Emma stood, and regretted it so much that she immediately sat back down. She put her pounding head between her hands.

“Stupid? You think I was _stupid_?”

“Yes,” Billy snapped. “There was no fight until you made one. If you’d ignored it he would have wandered away, and that would have been the end of it.”

“What he said was disgusting,” Emma said. “Am just supposed to keep quite when villains insult my friends?”

“Don’t defend me,” Billy said, quietly. “I can defend me, and I know the best way to do that. I know when it’s time to pick up a knife. I know when it’s time to run. I know when it’s time to ignore people. You don’t.”

Emma scowled. “I-”

“Know what it’s like to be me?” Billy asked. “Better than I do?”

That knocked all of the wind out of her sails, and whatever ornery response she’d had died on her tongue. The headache was steadily growing worse, and there was a terrible pressure on her bladder that meant she’d need an outhouse soon.

“I’m sorry, Billy,” she finally said. “I just-”   

“We thought you were dead,” he said flatly. “You hit the ground so fast that I thought your skull had caved in. Goodnight drew his gun, and we almost had a shootout.”

Mathew flashed through her mind. Mathew who’d spoken up against injustice once upon a time and gotten murdered for the effort. Mathew who’d left her to take up the cry, and move on in a life without him. She crossed the space of the cell on wobbly feet. Wrapping her hands around the bars she leaned forward so the cell could take her weight.

“I’ll wait for your lead next time,” she said. “I promise.”

Billy shook his head. He leaned against the door, but angled his body away from Emma.

“Goody’s handling the law,” Billy said. He reached into his pocket, and came back with a clean bit of cloth. “Here. Your face is covered in blood.”

Emma took the cloth, and scrubbed at the skin under her nose. The entire area felt tender, and she swiped her tongue through her mouth just to make sure none of her teeth were missing.  

“No one has ever punched me before. My daddy taught me how to shoot. Not how to box.”

“Someone should probably teach you then,” Billy said.

Emma slid to the ground, happy to sit. The bars were cool and smooth under her palms. She leaned her forehead against them hoping that sooth her injury.

“Yes,” Emma said. “I would be much obliged if someone could.”

He ran a hand over his face, and gave her a jerky nod.

Footsteps, and a jangle of keys were the only warning they had before the sheriff and Goodnight appeared.

“We are never coming back here,” Goodnight said with a wide sweep of his arms. “And I mean it this time!”

 

* * *

 

**_Even more months later…._ **

 

The river rushed around Emma’s hips. It was so cold that she’d shivered until her body had adjusted to the temperatures, but compared to the brutal Arizona heat she’d take it. She scrubbed her body off with sand, and dunked her head under the water. Her hair was longer now, and just curled behind her ears, but once dressed she still resembled a young man of seventeen rather than a widow of twenty-nine.

Resurfacing, she shook her head as though she were a wet dog, and ran a hand through her short hair. It was simpler and easier to manage on the trail, but more than once the loss of her only remaining feminine flag left her feeling off balance, and unsure. She’d written to Ms. Rachel about these feelings, but hadn’t received a reply yet.

She walked to shallower parts of the river, and then sat cross-legged with her hands buried into the wet sand. Small fish darted around her ankles and thighs, and tickled a large bruise she had on her hip where she’d fallen the week prior after Billy’d landed a hit to her stomach. There were other bruises further up her bicep, one in the shape of a hand print, and a fading smudge of purple along her calf.

Billy insisted she was getting better at fighting, and some days she actually believed him.

The dry heat wasn’t the only reason she was delaying the inevitable. Stretched out next to her vest was her sanitary belt, and the cold water was easing the cramps. She dunked her head under for one final time, steeled herself and then climbed up the sandy bank.

Emma was in the process of wiggling back into her vest when she heard Goodnight start hollering. She grabbed her hat and bag, and went sprinting back to camp with her six-shooter out, and ready for trouble. Billy’d been there when she’d left, and Goodnight was no slouch in a fight, but Goodnight still tended to hesitate before shooting.

Their camp was far enough into the surrounding trees that she wouldn’t see either of her companions until she was almost on top of them, and as she went tripping over branches and skirting around trees she wondered, not for the first time, how Arizona’d managed to grow so much green in a god damn desert.

When she crashed into the clearing she’d left hours before, she expected to see a band of robbers, a rabid bear or even a very irritated deer. Instead she got a paper flier shoved into her face.

“Emma! Look!”

Bracing herself for a wanted poster she holstered her gun, and took a few careful steps back so that she could read the message

“Kicking Rabbit Traveling Theater Company presents Shakespeare’s _Much Ado About Nothing_. A one night only, outdoor extravaganza! Chairs provided.”

Emma was a little unsure about Shakespeare. Goody had been so certain that she’d like _Romeo and Juliet_ , but she’d thought they were a bunch of fools right up until she’d started picturing Romeo as Mathew, and then they’d still been fools, but she’d gone and made herself sad.

He’d handed her _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ as well, but try as she might Emma just couldn’t enjoy them as much as Goodnight wanted her too. And Lord she _wanted_ to. She wanted to be well -read. Smart, and clever like a school teacher. She didn’t just want to read. She wanted to _appreciate_ what she read the way Goodnight did, but if she hated Shakespeare that didn’t seem likely to happen.

“I don’t believe I recognize this one Goodnight,” she finally said. “Is it good?”

“It’s one of his comedies,” Goodnight beamed. “And it is my personal favorite!”

Emma smiled. Even if she hated the play, Goodnight’s good mood was infectious. Maybe Shakespeare would different if she watched it rather than read it.

“Where did you find this?” she asked

Goodnight spread his arm out to take in the entire forest. Emma looked away from the flyer and blinked in surprised. Nailed to every fifth tree was a square of bright white paper shouting for attention.  

 “We’ve been here for three days. When did those go up?”

Goodnight waved the question away as though the idea of people skulking around their campsite while they slept wasn’t a concern.

Billy sat cross-legged next to the scattering of ash that had been their fire. A map was open across his lap, and he was tracing a path through Arizona with his finger.

“The town’s not that far away.” He gave Emma a wink, and then folded the map back up. “Maybe half a day’s ride. We can make it.”

Goodnight looked so excited, so very pleased with the idea, that all Emma could do was nod.

“It sounds lovely. I can’t recall the last time I was at the theater.”

The answer was ‘never’, but she kept that to herself.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Goodnight hooted. “Let’s get this place cleaned up! The Bard awaits!”


	2. Chapter 2

"They weren't kidding about the chairs."

 

Kicking Rabbit Production _hadn't_ been kidding about the chairs, but Emma hadn't thought that the word 'chairs' would be so loosely interpreted. Crammed into any inch of free space was seating of every kind; solidly carved wooden chairs with etchings of birds and flowers sat next to wobbly scraps of timber that looked ready to collapse at any moment. Saloon stools, long couches stuffed with goose feathers, a rocking horse, arm chairs, freshly stained benches, a dark pink chaise lounge, and toward the back a couple of saddled ponies. Every seat was pointed in the direction of a rickety stage that had a singed, blue curtain hanging over it. Not one seat was empty.

 

Emma was sitting in a plush, high-backed green chair with velvet upholstery that smelled strongly of pipe tobacco. She tipped her head back, and got a nice look at the painted summer sky.

 

"Don't suppose they mentioned a roof in that flier? This is not what I expected when they claimed this was 'outdoors'."

 

Goodnight, who was perched on a stool to her right, blinked at Emma with owl like intensity. For one anxiety filled second Emma was sure he was going to say, "Oh theaters don't come with roofs, Emma. I thought everyone knew that?"

 

But instead he just tipped his head back, and took a good look at the evening sky.

 

"Huh. I'd say they might have done this to capture the sunlight, but it's too late in the day and I saw a spotlight when we walked in. Guessed we'll just have to hope it doesn't rain." 

 

Billy reappeared, weaving his way between the people and the chairs as he shuffled down the aisle. He had a large chicken leg in each hand, and took the seat next to Goodnight. He looked completely put out as the rocking chair tipped him back, and it took a few moments of shifting before he was seated comfortably.

 

Goodnight chuckled, and then laughed harder when Billy glared.

 

"Don't suppose you want to switch?" Billy asked. “I hear rocking chairs are good for old men.”

 

"Nope!" Goodnight said happily. "I've got a bird's eye view from up here. Bring on giant men and women with ostentatious hats! I have been elevated above such concerns."

 

They were in the third row, and Emma privately thought that the crowd behind them was more likely to grumble about loquacious Cajuns than it was large hats, but she kept the thought to herself.

 

"Hey can I have a bite of that, Billy?" Goody asked.

 

"Nope," Billy said, around a mouthful of chicken. "You're too elevated. My arm can't reach you."

 

"Aw, come on, Billy! Don't be like that."

 

Emma had been with them for long enough to know that there were certain situations where Goodnight said ‘Billy’, but what he meant was ‘cher’ or ‘sugar’ or ‘honey.’ It was like a magician’s trick. The smallest change to the stress on the syllables, the tiniest warming of his tone of voice, and the word was transformed. There were days when she was baffled that the rest of the world couldn’t see how absolutely besotted the two of them were with one another. Then she remembered how many blind fools were in the world, and she remembered why.

 

"It's my chicken,” Billy argued. “I fought my way through the crowd to get it."

 

"I gave you the money for it!"

 

"Which I earned three towns back."

 

"And haven't I kept those winnings safe even as we tromped through some very unsettling scenery? Facing down bears, red necks, beautiful women and charming men who all had an interest in getting their hands on that hard earned coin?"

 

"What would a bear want with money?"

 

Then again, being in love didn’t keep them from being ridiculous.  

 

Emma turned away from her companions, and took a harder look at the circumference of the missing ceiling. When the two of them got on a roll it was almost impossible to get them to stop, and this was her first theater experience. She wanted to remember it.

 

There were no scorch marks that would indicate a fire. And she'd never known a fire so polite that it only burned one very particular bit of a building to nothing, and left the rest of the wood untouched. It was the strangest thing, and with no answers readily on hand she soon turned her attention to other sights.

 

The missing roof wasn't the only strange thing about the theater. There were plants scattered throughout the audience, and a raised box that more than one usher had shooed a possible patron away from. There was a balcony above her head, and it was full of shuffling individuals one of whom threw an orange peel over the side which landed right between her boots.

 

“I certainly hope that won’t be happening throughout the performance,” Emma muttered.

 

A well-dressed man, with dark brown skin and gold rimmed spectacles came onto the stage, and began to play a beautiful tune on the fiddle. The crowd quieted down some, but not nearly as much as Emma thought decent folks should.

 

"Why are people still talking?'" Emma asked.

 

"Oh, he's just warming up the crowd," Goody said.

 

Billy had a foot planted right in the middle of Goodnight's chest, but he hadn’t tipped Goodnight right off the stool and into Emma's lap because all of Goodnight's weight was thrown forward. His torso was stretch over Billy's leg, and both his arms were reaching for the closest chicken leg. Billy's back was arched and he was leaning so far back that his head was almost in the lap of the elderly woman next to him. She was, thankfully, fast asleep.

 

"They'll all go silent once the curtain goes up,” Goodnight assured her. “That's when the real show starts. Come on now, Billy! Be reasonable!"

 

Billy took another large bite out of his slowly disappearing dinner. "I am very reasonable."

 

"The play officially starts once the sun sets, sir."

 

Emma turned around and met the earnest stare of a small girl who was practically hanging off the edge of the bench where she was sitting.

 

It took Emma a moment to realize the 'sir' was directed at her. She considered correcting the girl, but that might involve more explanation than she had any interest in giving, and who knew when that curtain was going up.

 

"Wouldn't it be easier to put the play on with some sunlight?" Emma asked.

 

"That's what they thought when they built the place, but it's too hot!" the girl said cheerfully. "So we've got to watch'em in the dark.”

 

Emma supposed that made sense. The sky had changed into a gown of dark indigo, and a blessed temperature drop had accompanied it. Candles and lamps were already lit so people could see well enough to find their seats, and Emma wondered if they’d stay lit through the performance.  

 

“You want a piece of my orange?" the girl asked. “I promise not to throw the peel at you. I’ve been raised with manners.”

 

Emma laughed, and accepted the treat with a nod of thanks. Eating it quickly before anyone spotted it she licked the sticky residue from the pads of her fingers, and hoped that she wouldn't need to use the outhouse during the play. Her bladder insisted on an annoying amount of attention during this time of the month, and the older she's got the more uncomfortable it was to ignore.

 

"Thank you, Miss-?" Emma tilted her head at the girl.

 

"Maria."

 

Emma grinned. "Miss Maria. Thank you kindly."

 

She tipped her hat, and the small girl beamed.

 

Goodnight had lost his battle with Billy, and was sulking and watching the fiddler. Billy had completely stripped one of the legs of every inch of flesh, and was in the process of snapping the remains in half so that he could suck the marrow out of the bone. Emma’s grandmother had done a similar thing when she’d still been alive. At least she had before the last of her teeth had fallen out.

 

The fiddler took a bow and exited the stage to a splattering of applause. In the silence that followed, Goody's face transformed into an expression of almost childlike excitement.

 

"Here we go!" he said, giving Emma’s shoulder a squeeze.

 

Then the room went dark. All the candle flames snuffed out as though from a single breath of air, and Emma blinked several times as her eyes adjusted. Above her clusters of winking stars joined the audience as they watched the stage, and a cloud shuffled away to produce a low fat moon.

 

A spotlight flipped on, and drew Emma’s attention to the slowly rising curtain. Excited, she leaned forward in her seat.

 

Two men and two women entered, and stood upon the stage. One of the men, so tall and skinny that Emma worried they might hear the clinking of his bones over his lines, opened his mouth, and in a booming voice announced; "I learn in this letter that Don Peter of Aragon comes this night to Messina."

 

The play began.

 

It took a few moments for Emma's ears to adjust to the unusual speech Shakespeare was so found of. It was a bit like listening to someone with a thick accent, in that she had to pay close attention until the words started making a kind of rhythm in her mind. Once it had that down, it was like listening to strange music, and as long as she focused Emma was able to piece together what was happening on stage.

 

She immediately liked the sharp-tongued Beatrice, who was being played by a short, round faced woman with copper-colored skin and the largest brown eyes Emma had ever seen. She found herself smiling at the cracks against whoever the unlucky Benedick was, and laughter rippled through the audience with every jab at the yet unseen character.

 

One of the actors looked out across the audience, and then pointed.

 

"Don Pedro is approached!" he shouted.

 

From behind them a series of joyful whoops and hollers filled the air. A cluster of men ran in from the back, shouting greetings to the stage as they raced through the aisles, and the excited crowd cheered along with them. Emma spotted Billy holding his last chicken leg a little closer to his chest. While Goodnight laughed loudly, and cheered along with the rest.

 

Seven actors clambered onto the stage, and one in particular caught Emma's attention as he climbed. She frowned. It wasn't that noticing the back of a man was all that unusual. She was widowed not dead, but it wasn't lust that raced through her. It was familiarity. There was something in the way he moved, the particular set of his shoulders, and the shape of his head and neck that sent her mind shuffling through past experiences in an attempted to pair a memory with him.

 

Then the man turned, and his face was awash in the bright spotlight.

 

Emma froze. There was a worrying choking noise coming from Billy's direction, and Goodnight had actually braced both of his feet onto the bars of the stool and was standing. A grumble started up behind them, but Goodnight ignored it. Emma pinched the webbing between her thumb and forefinger hard. The pain confirmed she wasn't dreaming.

 

"Hey! Down in front!" called an angry voice.

 

Emma’s hand shot up, closed around a fistful of Goodnight's coat, and she pulled him back into his seat before a bottle could be thrown. Without taking his eyes of the actors, Goody gave Billy a hard slap on the back which dislodged the bit of chicken had been choking him.

 

The three of them gaped at the stage where Sam Chisolm, duly sworn warrant officer from Wichita, Kansas, and a licensed peace officer in Arkansas, Indian Territory, Nebraska and seven other states had opened his mouth and begun to banter with the Lady Beatrice.  

 

“Sam’s on stage,” Goodnight said, sounding dazed.

 

“Should we go get him?” Billy asked.

 

“Oh, I hope he’s not a funny character,” Emma said. “It won’t feel right to laugh at him.”

 

“ _Sam_ is on _stage,_ ” Goodnight said.

 

“Shhhhh!” Came an angry hiss from above.

 

The three of them ignored this.

 

"He's Benedick!" Goodnight said. “Sam Chisolm is playing _Benedick_!”

 

"Is that bad?" Emma asked, still not fully convinced she wasn't hallucinating.

 

"He's the leading man!"

 

“Shut your traps before I shut them for you!” Came another voice from the darkness.

 

Billy narrowed his eyes, and looked from his half eaten chicken leg to the angry stranger. Emma ignored this, too transfixed by the sight of Sam Chisolm moving confidently across the stage to worry about Billy starting a brawl.

 

As she watched she realized something. Sam wasn’t just the lead. He was a _good_ lead. He said the words that had so often caused Emma to reread and trip with precision and clarity. He was funny, charming, and fully committed to the role. Soon Emma was lost in the story again, and the man on the stage wasn't the Sam Chisolm who'd saved her town, but Benedick a sharp-tongued, but lovable man newly returned from the battle field.

 

It was another magician’s trick. The man she knew transformed into a stranger, who over the course of the hour became a different man that she grew to like quite a lot. (Though not as much as she liked Beatrice whose fury over her cousin’s dishonor electrified Emma in a way that was both strange and familiar).

 

Goodnight looked ready to burst with joy by the time the curtain was closing for the intermission. Then he was almost falling off the stool, and pushing his way down the row.

 

"Flowers," Goodnight shouted over his shoulder. "I have to find flowers! I’ll be back!"

 

He disappeared into the crowd just as an applause kicked up, and the sound swallowed the room.

 

“He’s coming back with a cactus,” Billy said. “I just know it.”

 

“That or he’s going to rip them out of some poor woman’s flower pot,” Emma agreed.

 

She was clapping so hard that her hands were beginning to hurt, but she didn’t want to stop yet.

 

Billy looked at the crowd, most of them incandescent with joy, with interest.

 

“Huh, usually no one claps until the end.”

 

“Oh,” Emma said, and stopped mid-clap.

 

Then then put two fingers in her mouth, leap to her feet, and whistled loudly. She hoped Sam could hear it over the rest of the commotion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Okay, I swore I would leave no WIPs in the fandom so this will be finished....eventually 
> 
> -If someone is choking don't slap them on the back. That's a bad idea.
> 
> -I think the weirdest thing about writing this is going 'wait...does that exist yet?" and then looking up when spotlights got invented to make sure I could have one.

**Author's Note:**

> -As more chapters are written the tags on this will be updated, but nothing terrible is planned for this in case you're concerned.
> 
> -It is actually not recommended that you shave yourself bald if you get lice, but it was something they did back in the day. (Goody's story about racing them is a thing soldiers actually did in the American Civil War...they also don't recommend you do that these days.)


End file.
